by T. M. Wright
Brett was certain of everything now except the one thing that could save him—a way out. And mobility. He cursed himself for not knowing the layout of the attic better than he did. After fifteen years in this house, he thought he knew every room, every corner. But the house was still strange to him. He knew only those rooms he used daily. And he had used the attic only a few times, to store old furniture and boxes of miscellaneous things. He thought of himself, suddenly, as a miscellaneous thing, a thing that had outlived its usefulness. It was the way Marilyn thought of him, he realized.
Christ, how had this happened to him? How, after sixteen years could he have failed to see her for what she was? And did he know what she was, or was he only guessing? The word psychopathic was very convenient, but it meant nothing, really. It was a label, and it solved none of his problems; it only magnified them.
His most important task, he knew, was to attempt movement, because if he was unable to move, he was dead: Either she would end it for him, or he would die, slowly, agonizingly, of thirst or hunger. And if he could move, then he had to find a way out. Down the main stairway would probably be suicide, and he couldn't go out the window, of course.
"Stack those boxes up over there, Brett. We'll never use that stairwell, anyway."
Brett replayed the words mentally. What boxes? he wondered. What stairwell? Were there two attic exits?
He felt a migraine starting. No, goddamnit, not now! He saw the migraine as a kind of ragtag, malevolent hobo come to pick at his brains and take away whatever sense was left in them. He watched the hobo lean over him, watched the hobo reach for him, grinning as if satisfied. He turned his head violently away from those hands. And saw the boxes that Marilyn had been talking about years ago. And knew where the stairwell was. He tried reaching for it, like a drowning man for a thrown oar. But his arms lay heavy and stiff and immobile at his sides. Only his fingers moved slightly.
And the grinning hobo was upon him.
Chapter 30
The whole dream was coming apart. Christine didn't know why it should: It was only a small dream, and, at the beginning, not even hers but Tim's. A home of our own. She remembered thinking—how long ago?—that it was a foolish dream and hoping Tim would forget it. And she remembered seeing this little house for the first time, remembered wanting it as she had never before wanted anything.
A very small dream—small and mundane, like wanting a new dryer. A home of our own. It no longer meant anything. It was lost in that other thing, that other—Christ, what was it? A thing like anger, or rage, and so tenacious, tenacious as a leech. A part of her, yes—she knew it was part of her, like a cancer would be part of her.
She didn't want to believe she could be dying. She fought the belief. She told herself she was tired from overwork, tired from the adjustment to her new lifestyle, tired from trying to be all that Tim wanted her to be. But these were lies. She knew they were lies. Her last piece of work was the painting done during the winter's worst blizzard, two months ago. That painting scared her now. She had shut it up in a closet. And Cornhill, and the house, demanded no burdensome adjustment. The people here were neither overly friendly nor overly aloof; they were very much like the people she and Tim had left behind when they moved here.
And Tim expected nothing from her that she was unable to give. He never had.
So, her excuses meant nothing, and the awful fact remained: She could look into her future and see nothing. A blank. Only this day, and the next, and the next, and perhaps a dozen, two dozen more. Then nothing. Because something inside her—a part of her—was slowly, and certainly, killing her.
The ringing of the phone jarred her. She looked over at it, startled, suddenly weakened. She took a deep breath, then another, wheeled herself to it, lifted the receiver:
"Hello?" It was a whisper; her strength had not yet returned.
"Christine, did I disturb you?"
"No, Marilyn. I'm a little out of breath. It's all right."
"I can call back later."
"No. I'm okay now." She hesitated, felt her strength coming back. "Honest, I'm okay."
"Good," Marilyn said, and paused dramatically. "Can you come over? I have a little surprise for you. You like surprises, don't you?"
"Surprise? Sure. Just give me a few minutes."
"Great. I'll see you soon, then." She hung up.
Marilyn beamed with pride at the top of the short, newly installed ramp. Christine, at the bottom of the ramp, shook her head slowly, her lips tight, in mock disapproval.
"Marilyn, I asked you not to do this. It wasn't necessary." And then she grinned. "You really shouldn't have, Marilyn. But now that you have. . . ." Her grin became a big, sincere smile. "Now that you have, thank you. Very much."
Marilyn gestured impatiently at the low metal railings on either side of the ramp. "Aren't you going to try it?"
"Sure I am." Christine grabbed the railings and pulled herself quickly, expertly, up to the landing, where Marilyn waited. "It works the way it's supposed to, Marilyn."
Marilyn put her hand on the doorknob. "I even had this door rehung, Christine." She opened the door. It had opened outward from left to right; now it opened from right to left, away from Christine.
"Perfect," Christine said, pleased all over again. "Everything's absolutely perfect." She touched Marilyn's hand. "Thank you, Marilyn. It's the nicest surprise I've had in a long, long time."
"My pleasure, Christine." She nodded toward the inside of the house. "Shall we? It's awfully cold out here."
"Yes," Christine said.
Greg wondered about several things. He wondered if his mother really would put a TV in here, like she said she was going to. And he wondered when he would go back to school and see Jimmy and Leon and Mark again. And Coni. They were all his friends, and they were probably wondering what had happened to him.
And he wondered when he had last eaten. He thought it had been two days ago. Meat loaf and peas and some milk. Or maybe hot dogs and milk. He wasn't sure. He remembered Little Rat—who had come in just after he'd started eating—saying that it looked like slop and that he should have thrown it in his mother's face. Greg hadn't liked that remark: "She's my mother," he remembered saying, and Little Rat had laughed and said, "So what?" To which Greg had said nothing.
And he wondered if he should block up the bottom of the closet door to help contain the smell of his bowel movements. The shoe box he'd found had probably fallen apart by now. The smell came to him in waves—a sickly sweet smell, the strident odor of decay.
For now he merely sat quietly, his back against the edge of the bed, his legs outstretched, and his hands behind his head. Sitting this way really wasn't as comfortable as Little Rat had made it look; it hurt his tailbone, and his knuckles where he had his fingers intertwined.
And he wondered when his mother would tell him why, exactly, she had shut him up in this room.
He was sure she would tell him sooner or later.
She was his mother, after all.
"I consider you my closest friend, Christine."
Marilyn had brought a small, straight-backed wooden chair in from the dining room and placed it in front of Christine. Both chairs were parallel to the front windows. The drapes were open, and Christine noticed that a heavy rain had started—patches of brownish-green grass were visible on Marilyn's front lawn.
"I haven't had many close friends," Marilyn continued. "None as close as you. Even in high school I was pretty much—what's the word?—a loner. By choice, of course. The few friendships I did have just"—she waved at the air with her right band—"vanished. Poof! Like that. People found it hard to understand me. I suppose—yes, I'll admit it—I expected too much from them. I expected things like loyalty and respect, and I guess that was too much to expect. But you're different, Christine. I sensed it from the moment we met. You value friendships as highly as I do, and you probably expect as much from one as I. Am I right or wrong?"
Christine said nothing. She nodded onc
e, slowly, solemnly.
"I thought so," Marilyn continued. "I thought so. I knew it when you broke off with that Foster woman. I knew she was no good—well, she is a lesbian, isn't she?—because I've known her for a few years. But you're new here, and though I warned you, I couldn't really expect you to trust the word of a woman who was little more than a stranger. So I let you find out for yourself. I knew how perceptive and discerning you were. I knew."
"Thank you, Marilyn." Christine's tone was low, confidential.
"Friends don't say, 'Thank you.' Friends expect . . . what they receive: trust and respect and loyalty. I had that ramp built because you are my friend, my closest friend, and you have certain very special needs. I would not be your friend if I didn't understand that."
"Not many people do understand it, Marilyn."
"I believe you. I know what people are and what they're capable of. I've seen it a thousand times. I'm sure you have, too."
Christine nodded again, again solemnly.
"We're kindred spirits, Christine. We see things the same way. We're very much like sisters. I believe we even think the same way."
"Perhaps we do, Marilyn."
"Would you like some tea, Christine?"
"Yes, I would. I'd love some tea."
The cat, an orange-and-white longhair with a small round face, huge round eyes, and small ears—her erstwhile owners were fond of calling her a Persian—had given the young German shepherd two impossibly quick swipes, each tracing thin, painful scratches along the dog's nose. The shepherd had supposed the cat's great bulk would prevent her from running and make her easy prey—much like the kitten he had savaged the week before. But, at last, his overconfidence had made him dangerously incautious, and he had learned what a cornered fully grown cat could do.
The cat had no time to gloat over her victory; she had more important business. The time had come for her kittens to be born, and she was a long way from the safe, warm place she had selected only days before.
The pain struck her; she panted to relieve it, and soon it dissipated.
She was a very resourceful cat. She had learned quickly to live on what she could forage, or kill. And she—like all cats—was an expert killer. Her memories of her last owners were vague, meaningless ("The goddamned cat is pregnant again." . . . "Jesus Christ, how long is this going to go on?". . . "Get rid of her if you don't like it." . . . "That's precisely what I intend to do.").
She ran. The dog would return soon, and it was likely he'd bring other dogs with him. And the warm, safe place she had chosen seemed very appealing now, the call to motherhood loud and powerful within her.
She recognized the house immediately, both because of its scent and its great size. She went around to the back of the house, stopped, panted a moment. And leaped five feet up the trunk of the huge maple. She climbed furiously until the top of the tree was only a few feet above her.
She looked. The open window was close; she could almost step to it.
The pain struck her once more. She panted briefly, then leaped again—through the window, to the attic floor.
And felt something tear inside her belly. The, pain was overwhelming now; she purred loudly, coarsely, in reaction to it.
She moved to the open space she had found in the attic floorboards, near the stairs, and crawled in.
An hour later, six kittens were nursing from her.
Eight hours later, she left the attic through the open window in search of food for herself. She felt sure her kittens were in no danger; the place she had chosen under the attic floor was dark and safe and warm.
After a short search, she killed a mouse. Her intention now was to bring it back to the attic and eat it there, while her kittens—their hunger nearly insatiable—continued nursing from her.
It was a greater effort this time to scale the huge maple. She was still tired from giving birth, and the mouse between her teeth was a clumsy burden. She found it necessary to rest several times.
The mistress of the house closed and locked the attic window during the third of the cat's short rests. She had felt a marked draft in the house, had called her husband, had been told the probable source of the draft.
The woman left the attic quickly. Not until a month and a half later would she enter it again. And then another time, a week after that.
Attics frightened her. But they were good for hiding things.
Strength came to him and went from him in waves, as if in time with an incredibly slow heartbeat. And the fact that he was blind here, in this stairwell, and had no idea where it led, made him feel smothered—a participant in someone else's nightmare.
He had heard Marilyn open and close the main attic door. And he had waited resignedly for her footfalls on the stairs. But there hadn't been any. Only a return to silence. That was when he had allowed himself a rest.
Mobility had come to him slowly, and moving the boxes that blocked the stairwell required a strength he assumed had left him days ago.
Now, halfway down, resting was involuntary.
He had no idea what he'd do if he found a way out.
No idea at all. Marilyn, he realized, needed help. Or punishment. That concept intrigued him, and for several moments he involved himself with several delicious fantasies. It amazed him that he was not above punishing her in some way. In his own way. But that was for later.
And there was Greg to consider—Greg, his only offspring; Marilyn's prisoner. Christ, that was obscene!
But now his own safety, his own life, concerned him most.
Because, he realized, unless be used more strength and tenacity than he had, he would probably die here.
Marilyn hit her thumb with the hammer. And cursed aloud. How in the hell was she supposed to drive these little tacks into the wood? The damned hammer was almost useless. She stuck her thumb into her mouth and grimaced at the smell that wafted up to her from under the door. She'd have to cover the entire perimeter of the door, seal the attic off entirely. She wondered if she had enough plastic for that. She wondered if, in time, the stench would penetrate the walls andfloors to the rooms below, and fill the whole house with that abominable stink. She furiously nailed another section of plastic to the bottom of the door. No way in hell was he going to continue to corrupt her house.
Chapter 31
"Hey, Greg, you in there?"
Greg felt the blanket being tugged. It had become his habit to sleep with the blanket covering his entire body, from the bottoms of his feet to the top of his head. It was safer that way. The things that crawled around on the floor and that fell from the ceiling at night were stopped by a good heavy blanket. And it was warmer, too. Especially here, in this room. He wondered if his mother would really have the radiator fixed, like she said. He decided she probably would. She said she would.
"Greg, come on outa there. What you scared of?"
It was a good question, Greg thought. And the answer was simple: He was scared of Little Rat. Scared of the way he glared, like a marionette. Scared of the things he said about his—Greg's—mother, things that made Greg angry. Scared of the way he could open doors that Greg couldn't. Scared of the way he could appear here at any old time he wanted. And scared because it was probably true what he had said a long time ago: He was a vampire.
"Hey, Greg, you're fulla shit, you know that?" Little Rat chuckled a low, taunting chuckle. "You really are."
"No I'm not," Greg whispered.
"Sure you are. Your whole family is, 'specially your mother."
Greg said nothing. He had an idea what was coming. Maybe if he kept quiet, Little Rat would go away. He decided, suddenly, that he hated Little Rat. "Remember that story you told me about the puppy—the one your mother dug up?"
Greg stayed quiet.
"Yeah," Little Rat went on, "well, that was a shifty Story. That was a real shifty story. It probably wasn't even true. I'll bet three spits it wasn't true."
"It was true," Greg whispered. He felt the blanket being tugged harder.
"Come on outa there, Greg. I can't hear what you're sayin'."
Greg felt the blanket yanked away. He rolled in the bed toward Little Rat, eyes wide.
And gasped. The word "Mommy!" escaped him, and he buried his head in the pillow to shut himself away from what stood beside the bed.
"She's a damned freakin' old bitch!" it yelled. And Greg imagined the words moving out of the motionless, dark oval mouth, and the dark eyes in the pasty-white face grinning madly at him.
Little Rat had changed.
"Mommy!" Greg whimpered.
"A freakin' greedy old witch, yeah, and she's gonna let ya starve here, to death."
"Mommy!" Greg screamed.
"In your own shit—"
The door burst open. The overhead light came on. Marilyn screeched, "Shut up you goddamned little bastard I'm trying to sleep can't you see that?" And Greg was amazed, petrified, that she had said it all in one breath.
"Mommy?" he whispered.
The overhead light went out. The door slammed shut. Seconds later another door, down the hall, slammed shut.
Little Rat said, "Neat trick, huh? I can do it for ya again. Wanna see?"
Greg had curled up into a fetal position. He said nothing. He wanted desperately to get away from this thing that was sharing his room with him.
"Christine, wake up." Tim nudged her. "Darling?" He flicked on the bedside lamp. "My God!" Her face, neck, and shoulders were bathed in perspiration, and her body shook convulsively. He put his hand to her cheek; the skin was incredibly hot.
Tim scrambled out of bed, ran to the living room, snatched up the phone. He hesitated. It would be best, he reasoned, to call an ambulance. He couldn't be certain Christine's doctor was available now and might waste precious time finding out. He got the phone book, opened it.
"Tim?"
He looked toward the bedroom. "Christine?"
He dropped the phone book and hurried into the bedroom. She was sitting up, her head thrown back against the headboard, her arms limp at her sides. She looked exhausted.